


a million ways to bleed

by sylwrites



Series: fall in light [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst, Coping, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-05 14:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11015703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylwrites/pseuds/sylwrites
Summary: Another coda to "Fall in Light"."I love you as you are, but do not tell me how that is." - Antonio Porchia





	1. one

_There are a million ways to bleed, but you are by far my favourite._

 

 

 

March is a strange month.

 

Every year, it seems like a toss-up. Sometimes, it’s like the dawn of a new day. The snow begins to melt, and even though everything is now coated with a brownish sludge, it seems cleaner. The air is fresh without being quite as crisp as winter. Toward the end of the month, green starts to pop up in gardens and parks and on trees, signalling the start of something great. And yet in other years, March is nothing but a staunch loyalist to December’s oppressive overture of winter. The snow still falls, the wind still whips, and the sun hides away.

 

This year is one of those times, where Betty won’t put her winter boots away quite yet. It’s only the beginning of the month, so she supposes she shouldn’t expect too much too quickly, but winter has already been long and hard and she’s over it. Betty has compromised by trading her darker fall scarves for pastel-coloured pashminas and cheery blue plaid, but she longs for the days of t-shirts and jeans without accompanying wool socks and coats.

 

Not that Betty hates winter. She gets to bake even more than usual and has Jughead to cuddle with for extra warmth if she needs it. She’s already done the latter today, so now she’s on the first - up on the docket first is more portable breakfast for the two of them. A dozen muffins are fresh out of the oven (raspberry bran, because her fibre intake is sorely lacking) and are cooling on the counter while she mashes overripe bananas for use in bread. Betty opens the cupboard under the sink to drop another spotted peel in the trash, and pauses.

 

There’s a paper in the garbage, the end just sticking out enough to read the header: the American University of Paris. She frowns and picks it out, brushing any remnants of trash off of it. It’s addressed to someone named Forsythe Pendleton Jones. _Jones,_ Betty realizes. Was that Jughead? He was currently sitting on the couch around the corner in the living room, typing away at one of his semester projects. As she skims it, a few phrases pop out: **We are pleased to inform you** … **summer term** … **please advise by March 15**.

  
A lump suddenly develops in Betty’s throat. He’d applied for a study abroad in Paris? Without telling her? She feels irrational tears spring behind her eyes. He would be _gone?_ She swallows the lump and tries to think logically. It was likely an incredible opportunity, or else he wouldn’t have put his name in the hat. Jughead never strived for anything but the best. He’d supported her through so much already in their short relationship; what kind of girlfriend would she be if she didn’t support him through this? Paris was far, but she has pretty solid faith in their relationship already, and it seems like it would be temporary. They could handle it. _She_ could handle it.

 

“Juggie,” Betty calls, her voice a bit shaky. “Can you come here?”

 

She hears the sound of his laptop being set down, followed by a faint, disgruntled mewl that indicates Caramel’s displeasure about something. His socked feet result in silent footsteps, and then he’s there at the counter. “What’s up, Betts? Oh, that smells good.”

 

Betty turns and holds the acceptance letter up. “Juggie, what’s this?”

 

Jughead’s smile drops immediately. “It’s nothing, Betty.” He reaches for it, but she pulls it back before he can grab it.

 

“This is yours,” she confirms. “Your name is _Forsythe?”_

 

He winces. “Yeah, unfortunately.”

 

Betty blinks at the paper. Too much information to process. “When are - when is this happening?”

 

“It’s six weeks, end of May through June.” Jughead steps closer to her and places one hand on the paper. His other hand touches her arm gently. “But I’m not going. So just - don’t worry, let’s drop it. Come on, I could use a study break.” He leans in with a smile to kiss her.

 

She puts a hand up to stop him, and he backs off. “No, I want to talk about this. Why didn’t you tell me you applied?”

 

Jughead sighs. “I applied way back at the beginning of October,” he says, exasperation creeping into his voice. “It satisfies one of my seminar requirements at New School, but it’s a really competitive program. It was a long shot. And it was before we were ‘us’! So I didn’t think there was a point in mentioning it, and honestly, I totally forgot about it until…”

 

“Until you got accepted,” Betty finishes. He nods in confirmation, and she asks, “When did you get this?” She shakes the paper.

 

“Two days ago,” Jughead admits sheepishly. “But Betty, immediately I decided I’m not going, so--”

 

“Why not?” Betty interrupts, reaching her hands behind her and lifting herself onto the counter. Her feet are beginning to hurt from standing on the hard linoleum for hours, baking, and she has a feeling this conversation isn’t going to end soon. “Why aren’t you going?”

 

Jughead looks at her with total confusion, as though the answer was so obvious that he couldn’t understand why she didn’t know it already. “I don’t want to leave you for six weeks.”

 

A pang of something unidentifiable hits Betty directly in the heart. Sweet, loving Jughead. He’s been through so much and deserves the world, but he just keeps on giving more to her anyway. Betty would be lying if she said she didn’t appreciate and want his constant presence, his calming touch, and his reassuring smile. But they were adults, and this was his future. Having a prime fellowship under his belt would give him a leg up in the competitive job market they were both about to enter. She isn’t going to let him give that up for her.

 

“I don’t want you to go away for that long either,” Betty admits, her eyes dropping to her hands. She sets the acceptance letter beside her and picks at her short fingernails. “But it sounds like a really good opportunity. You should take it.”

 

She means it. He’s earned it. And she’ll survive. She’ll still have Veronica and Archie and Midge, who she’s started to hang out with on occasion. It’s six weeks. They can text and Skype every day. She can throw herself more effectively into her school and get some real work done on the end-of-program documentary she’s supposed to be making. And perhaps she’s lying to herself; perhaps the cold side of the bed will be too empty, the apartment too quiet, her heart too sad. But she’s willing to deal with the temporary heartbreak of distance if it means good things for him.

 

Betty looks up when Jughead doesn’t respond right away. He looks vaguely irritated. She hadn’t expected that. He opens his mouth and then shuts it again, as if second-guessing his words. “I know what I’m giving up,” he finally says. “But it’s my decision.”

 

Betty raises her eyebrows. She wants to respect his choices the way he respects hers, but - he’s being an idiot. “I don’t want to make you sacrifice any more for me than you already have,” she tells him, sliding off the counter.

 

“Any more?” Jughead repeats, eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you think you’ve made me do?”

 

She shifts uncomfortably and clutches her own elbows. They’ve always had easy communication; that is one of her favourite things about being with him. Any arguments have always been petty - about which place to order Thai from, or that _no,_ he can’t wear ripped jeans to Veronica’s fancy party. This feels heavier, and the lack of familiarity is disconcerting. “I don’t think it’s any secret that you got the short end of the stick in this relationship, Juggie,” Betty says softly.

 

His frown is deep and his eyes hard when he looks at her. “Don’t say shit like that, Betty. If anything, it’s the other way around.”

 

She gives an empty laugh. “Come on, Jughead,” she says, rolling her eyes at him. “You’re dating a ball of anxiety. You have to watch to make sure I don’t cut my palms with my own fingernails because I don’t know it until there’s blood. You can’t touch me without having to check for permission because I wasn’t smart enough to think twice when I was fifteen. We’ve been dating since December and we haven’t had sex like every other adult couple does because my brain is broken. We can’t even go out to the bar without you worrying about me! I see it in your eyes - you’re always checking, always watching. And I appreciate it, I appreciate it so much,” she adds, meeting his eyes with sincerity. “It helps me be normal. And I’ll never be able to repay you for what you do for me. But I am a big girl, Juggie. I’ll survive without you for six weeks.”

 

Jughead’s jaw drops slightly and he shakes his head vigorously. He pulls his beanie off in frustration and fists it in his hand. There’s a look in his eye that Betty has never seen before, and it sends a bit of a shiver down her spine. “I don’t care about any of that shit,” he says, his voice teetering on the edge of anger. She’s seen him mad before, but never at her, and she decides that she doesn’t like it at all. “I don’t _care_ that I have to check in, because I still get to touch you. I still get to kiss you. And eventually, when you’re ready, I’ll still get to be with you.” He places an added emphasis on the last few syllables; they both know what he means. “I trust you, completely. I know you would be fine here. It’s _me_ that won’t be fine without you.”

 

The tears are welling again, betraying her attempt at a confident, encouraging exterior. Betty swipes at them with her fingers but they begin to fall anyway. She's never been good at arguments; her instinct is always to be the one to give in, the one to say _it's okay,_ just to make everyone happy again. But this is important. “You’ll resent me,” she sniffs. “If you don’t go, you’ll resent me.”

 

“That’s bullshit,” Jughead interjects, anger now fully evident in his voice. “I don’t tell you how to feel, Betty. You don’t get to tell me how I’ll feel, either.”

 

“I want you to follow your dreams,” Betty says, her throat choking with emotions. She hasn’t had a good cry in a while, and it feels like it’s all coming now. “I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do something. You’re so, so talented. You deserve this.”

 

He stares at her for a long moment. “What I want is here,” he finally says, turning around with finality. It’s his attempt to end the conversation, but Betty isn’t ready to drop this quite yet.

 

 _Jesus Christ._ She takes a choppy breath in. “If we weren’t together, would you go?”

 

Jughead sighs and looks back at her. “What?”

 

“If we weren’t together,” Betty repeats, approaching him slowly, “would you go?”

 

He sputters. “Well, yeah.”

 

“Then you have to go!” She throws a hand up. “Would you want me to bypass this kind of opportunity?”

 

Jughead narrows his eyes. Betty can see that he knows what she’s doing, but she’s done giving a shit. He’s so self-sacrificing and masochistic sometimes that it hurts her heart, and if it takes her pushing to get him to do something for himself, she’ll do it. He sighs again and leans against the counter, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why won’t you drop this?” he asks weakly.

 

Betty stares at him, and it comes to her. It’s right there in front of her, so clear and obvious. “Because I love you.”

 

He freezes, head still in his hand, but the arm that’s wrapped around his abdomen falls. Her eyes raise to his face, where a muscle in his jaw is twitching. And then _she_ freezes, and realizes - he’s not going to say it back. The words she wants aren’t going to come. Her immediate instinct is to go into damage control mode, to try to downplay her outburst for his comfort, but it’s the most real thing she’s felt in what seems like years - and she can’t.

 

Betty swallows hard and blinks furiously. “You don’t have to say it,” she says, even though his silence is killing her. “But I’m not taking it back.”

 

His hand finally falls. Betty’s eyes fly to his face and she sees it: a look of sheer panic. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out, and there must be something terrifying in her eyes because he averts his gaze from hers sharply. Jughead stands straight and then in a single fluid motion, grabs his jacket and bolts out the door.

 

Betty stands there for a minute in stunned disbelief. Then she grabs her phone and tries to call him to tell him to come back, that she’s sorry, that he doesn’t have to love her if he doesn’t want to - but then his cell phone rings on the coffee table. She runs down to the street, thinking maybe he is just getting some air, but he’s not there. Betty goes back up and tugs on her running gear quickly, then takes off around the neighbourhood.

 

He’s nowhere, not that she can find. Betty keeps running anyway, through Dumbo, through Bushwick, halfway across the entire damn borough. Still nothing. She stops at the seawall and looks at the Manhattan skyline. It’s beginning to get brighter as the sky gets darker, and Betty realizes that soon it’ll be night and Jughead will be out somewhere in New York City without a cell phone. She doesn’t even know if he has his wallet. Visions of him dead in alleyways begin to circulate, and they only drop from her mind because she begins to replay the argument in her mind.

 

(He wants her, but he can’t have her yet. He deserves the best, but he won’t take it. She loves him, and he doesn’t love her.)

 

This isn’t how she thought it would go.

 

Betty feels her fingers twitch. She looks down realizes that her palms are bleeding. She’d left without gloves, but it’s March and her hands are numb now. She sniffs and tightens her shoelaces, then begins to run again.

 

She runs for another twenty minutes before her shoe hits a patch of ice and she’s sent flying. Her foot hits the concrete at an unnatural angle and she feels a _pop_ in her ankle just as the rest of her collides with the ground. She cries out in pain and spends a minute cradling her ankle before she pulls herself up against a brick building and begins to hobble home. On the way, with frozen fingers, she phones Veronica.

 

“Hey B!” Veronica chirps upon picking up. “What’s up?”

 

“Have you seen Jughead?” Betty asks, trying to keep her voice steady. She knows that sometimes he goes over to Archie and Veronica’s, although usually it’s not unannounced. “Has he come by?”

 

There’s some rustling on her end of the phone, then Veronica replies, “No. Why? Archie - you haven’t heard from Jughead, have you?” There’s more muffled noise, then she says, “He hasn’t either. What’s going on?”

 

Betty stops limping and leans against the side of a sporting goods store. Two more blocks to go. “We had a - we had an argument,” she says, knowing that her voice is wavering and hoping her friend can’t notice. “He sort of ran out. And I can’t find him.”

 

“He ran out?!” Veronica repeats loudly, and Betty winces. “Okay, hang on, yes Archie I’ll put her on speaker.” There’s a click, then, “Okay, start from square one.”

 

Her ankle is throbbing, and Betty can’t help but sniff loudly into the phone. “Umm. We got in a fight. It’s a long story, but - I told him I loved him,” she says, voice nearly a whisper. She can’t manage any more volume, or she’ll crack.

 

The line is silent for a moment. “What did he say?” Veronica finally asks.

 

“He didn’t say anything,” Betty answers. “He took his jacket and he ran out. He didn’t even bring his phone. But that was two hours ago, and it’s dark now and I went looking and I fell and - I’m just so worried about him,” she finishes, tears hot on her cheeks. “I was hoping he was with you guys.”

 

“You told him you loved him?” Archie echoes. “Ah.”

 

The tone of Archie’s voice pricks Betty’s attention. “What?” she asks. “What does that mean?” She squints down the block both ways, feeling uncomfortable about the darkness and nearly unable to hold her phone because of the cold and the dried blood cracked on her hands. As she begins to limp toward home again, Archie speaks.

 

“He’s a little weird about that word,” he hedges. “He probably got freaked out.”

 

Veronica lets out a frustrated huff. “Oh my god, he has commitment issues, how original. You don’t run out on someone after a fight when they tell you they love you. I’m so sorry, B. Are you okay?”

 

“Not really,” Betty admits. “I don’t care if he - I mean, I do want him to say it back, I think. But on his own time. Right now I just want him to come back.”

 

“I think I might have an idea of where he is,” Archie interjects. Betty can hear the hesitation in his voice, as though saying it aloud would be a betrayal of his best friend, but there’s worry evident, too. That seems to win out, because then he says, “I’ll go look.”

 

“Take Smithers,” Veronica insists. “And text me immediately when you find him so I can tell Betty. B, can you get home?”

 

It’s only a block and a half left. She grits her teeth against the pain in her leg and answers, “I can make it.”

 

“Okay. Go there, get warm. I’ll text you as soon as I hear anything from Archie.”

 

Betty sniffs. “Okay,” she says in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry, V. Thank you for helping.”

 

“That’s what best friends are for,” Veronica responds gently. “It’s going to be okay, Betty.”

 

The air is cold and the night is silent. There are plenty of lights, but Betty feels the darkness looming anyway. “I hope so.”

 

\--

 

When she gets home, Betty wraps herself in a blanket and curls up on the couch in her thermal leggings and long sleeves. She doesn’t bother to clean her hands or ice her ankle; instead, she lays on her side facing the back of the couch with Caramel curled at her feet. She stares at her phone; there are no texts from Veronica yet. She plays Tetris for a short while before everything becomes overwhelming again, then Betty drops her phone and screws her eyes shut tightly.

 

She supposes she must have fallen asleep, because the next thing Betty knows the sound of the apartment door opening is waking her up. She sits up immediately, wiping fresh blood from her palms onto her torn leggings, and watches as Archie walks in. For a second her heart sinks, but then he stands to the side and Jughead appears behind him.

 

She exhales, and only then does Betty realize she hadn’t been breathing.

 

“I’ll talk to you guys later,” Archie says quietly. He shoots Betty a reassuring smile and then leaves, locking the door behind them.

 

Jughead pulls his beanie off and sets it on the table. Betty knows she must look like shit right now, but he looks terrible. His eyes are bloodshot, the bags under them darker than she’s ever seen. His hair is never neat, but the lack of beanie has made it worse, somehow. He looks broken. Her initial instincts are to rush to his side and wrap her arms around him, to hold him and kiss the sadness away; but then she remembers that he’s the one who left, and she stays sitting.

 

Betty reaches for her phone. There's a text from Veronica: **_Archie found him, bringing him to your apartment now_ ** , from half an hour earlier. She responds with a quick **_he's here now, thank you_ ** and then puts her phone away again.

 

Jughead doesn’t say anything; he just keeps staring at the linoleum floor. “Where were you?” Betty finally asks.

 

His breath catches in his throat when he tries to reply, and what comes out is a sort of strangled cough. Jughead winces and shakes his head, then finally looks at Betty. His heartbroken expression feels like a punch to the gut. “I am a piece of shit,” he mutters. “Betty, I - I’m so sorry, I…” He trails off, quiet once his eyes fall on her bleeding hands. “Fuck. Your hands, Betty.”

 

She looks down at her palms. Fresh blood is streaked across them, and since she never cleaned the dried blood from her earlier run - yeah, it looks bad. They hurt, too, but Betty’s heart feels like it was flash-frozen and then shattered, so by comparison her hands aren’t really registering. “Oh,” she says, her voice quiet.

 

“C’mere, you need to wash them out.” Jughead takes another step toward her, reaching his own hand out for hers. Betty just stares at him in response, silent, and even his rapid blinks can’t hide the tear that comes to his eye. “Betty, please,” he whispers.

 

She sniffs then nods wordlessly and rises to her feet. She follows him to the bathroom, hobbling, and tries not to cry at his closeness as he washes the blood from her hands and puts antiseptic on her palms. Jughead wraps cloth bandages around them, then holds them in his hands. He looks like he’s going to speak, and even though Betty has spent the last two hours desperate for him to come back and stand here in front of her, now she’s not actually sure if she’s ready to hear whatever he’s going to say.  

 

“Betty, I am _so_ sorry. You don't have to forgive me. But fuck, I'm a fucking idiot.” He is still holding her hands, but not looking at her; Betty is torn between an inability to handle his brokenhearted eyes and a desperate need to see him.

 

She stands on her left foot, resting her hurt ankle against the good one, and nods at him in agreement. He seems to be struggling, and Betty takes pity on him. “Look, Juggie - I understand if you have reservations about…about what I said to you. It breaks my heart that you grew up not knowing what love feels like. But Jug, before, _I’m_ the one that said it, because it's how _I_ feel. And I don't know how to express that I love you other than to tell you that I do. It's not weird, and it's not… _not_ normal, and I'm not sorry. But if you don't love me back, that's…okay,” she finishes, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that.”

 

Jughead shakes his head vigorously. “No, Betty, that's not-” he trails off, dropping her hands. His body twitches and his eyes screw shut, then he runs a shaky hand through his hair and stares at her, absolutely raw. “I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.”

 

He exhales in relief, and the burden seems to wash away. Despite herself, Betty's eyes fill with tears, and she inhales shakily.

 

“I haven't said that to anyone in fifteen years,” Jughead admits. His eyes are still wide and fearful, but sincerity shines through. “I freaked out, Betty. And I fucked up and ran.” He drops her hands and leans against the bathroom sink rubbing his face with his palms. “Nobody has ever said that to me and meant it before. At least, nobody has ever meant it enough to stay. It meant nothing for so long. But when you said it - it was everything, suddenly. And I panicked.”

 

Betty closes her eyes and winces at the heightened throbbing in her ankle. It needs to be elevated soon. “It's okay,” she says after a delay, clutching the side of the bathroom door for support.

 

“Betty, what's wrong?” Jughead asks, his voice suddenly back in the concerned, protective mode that she was more familiar with. His eyes trail down her legs, and it's like he's noticing for the first time. “What happened?!”

 

She begins to hobble out of the bathroom back toward the living room. “I fell on ice.”

 

“Whoa, stop.” Jughead comes immediately to her side and then scoops her up in his arms. “When?!”

 

He sets Betty gingerly down on the couch, and she puts her foot on a pillow. “When you were gone. I tried to look for you,” she says as he goes to the kitchen for an ice pack.

 

Jughead returns with the ice and holds it to her ankle, his face ashen. He looks like he's going to throw up. “I really fucked this up, didn't I?” he asks softly.

 

Betty looks down at her hands. “I was so scared that you were hurt. And I didn't understand why you ran. You didn't have to say it back.”

 

“I shouldn't have ran,” Jughead says firmly to her ankle. “I should've taken a deep breath and told you how much you mean to me. How I still wake up and am shocked that someone who is smart and funny and beautiful you are will even speak to me, let alone - let alone love me.” He clears his throat of the emotion that has built in his voice. “But I didn't. I guess I love just like my parents after all.”

 

Betty frowns. _“No,”_ she hisses, tugging her foot away with a twinge of pain. She shifts on the couch until she's right next to him, and she grabs his face. “Maybe your dad is trying, but your mom - she just walked out on you. That’s not love, Juggie.” She leans in and kisses him softly. “I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have waited around expecting you to say it back if you weren't ready.”

 

Jughead clutches her wrists. “But I am. And I do. I love you,” he says throatily. “And me not saying it before is just stupid bullshit. So I'm gonna say it over and over again until you believe me.”

 

She smiles at that and drops her hands, scratching her nail against the denim covering his thigh. “I know,” Betty says. “And I knew before, if I thought hard enough. Because love isn't trying a little and then leaving, Jug. You're not like your parents. At all.” She raises her head to meet his eyes. “I know how you love, Juggie. You always make sure I feel safe when we're out,you bring me coffee when I'm up late editing, you wait for me to tap your arm before you touch me. It's all those things I threw in your face before, that if I would have just waited a minute I wouldn't have needed to say anything. _That's_ love. That's who _you_ are.”

 

Then his arms are slipping around her, and he's pulling her into his lap. She thinks he's going to kiss her, but instead he just tugs her close and hugs her tightly, burying his face in her chest. Betty feels his shoulders shuddering under her hands and places soft kisses on his head wherever she can reach.

 

“It's okay,” she whispers. “We both fucked up. But it's okay.” She rubs his neck, scratching the skin lightly. “I love you,” she says, smiling ruefully when he raises his face to look at her. “I thought I'd try it out,” she admits.

 

Jughead returns the smile. “I like it,” he says, then kisses her.

 

It starts slowly, because she is full of emotion and so is he, and it's hard to kiss when you can't breathe for the snot in your nose. They're all languid tongues and petting hands, until Jughead lifts Betty off of him. She is confused for a moment at the broken kiss, and stands before him in a momentary swirl of hormones and feelings before he picks her up and by instinct she wraps her legs around him.

 

She clings to him and starts kissing his neck as he carries her down the hallway and toward his bedroom. He holds her against the closed door and catches her lips, kissing her again. Betty soaks in the moment; it's passionate, but he's still restrained. Always restrained. Always careful, steady, slow - for her. But right now she just wants him with her, around her, in her, everything. So she moans into his mouth and twitches her knee to signal that she wants her feet to touch the ground. His hands grip the backs of her thighs and her ass as her legs unwrap from him, and Betty bites his lip.

 

When she does, Jughead lets out an unfamiliar noise, almost like a quiet growl, and presses his hips into hers.

 

Betty breaks the kiss with a quiet gasp. He begins to trail his lips down her neck, tugging the neckline of her shirt to the side a bit to access more skin. It feels amazing and she whines over his shoulder, but it's really the other sensation that she's trying desperately to focus on. He's hard, which she's noticed before, but he seems always to tilt his pelvis away from her while they're fooling around so she's never felt _him_ against her.

 

But he's doing it now, and between that and the slight tremble in his fingers on her waist, Betty realizes just how badly Jughead wants her and how much he's been holding back. He _loves_ her, and she loves him. The thought burns happiness behind her eyes, and when his hands clutch the hem of her shirt questioningly, Betty can think of nothing more than how badly she wants him too. He will take care of her, she knows. He deserves this too. She can give this - herself - to him.

 

So she reaches behind herself and opens the door, breaking their connection momentarily. Betty lifts her shirt in a fluid motion and peels her leggings off with as much urgency as her injured ankle will allow. Now only in her underwear and sports bra, Betty turns to look at Jughead. He's still fully dressed, but he's staring, and for the first time the look of desire in his eye is unbridled.

 

Betty tries to swallow her nerves, summons as much confidence as she can, and sits on the bed. She doesn't move her eyes from his, watching him anxiously as she removes her bra and drops it on the floor.

 

He seems to be breathing unsteadily. Betty clutches the bedspread to avoid crossing her arms over her chest. “Juggie,” she says, biting her lip. “Come here.”

 

Jughead obeys and sits on the edge of the bed beside her. “Betty,” he says, voice full of emotion. He casts his eyes across her body until they land on her face, and he visibly swallows. “You are so beautiful.”

 

Betty reaches over with her heart pounding and grabs his wrist. She tugs him down and he falls on the bed beside her. He leans in and kisses her, his hands on her face. Betty’s chest swirls with an odd pleasure at the contrasting feeling of his rough denim and soft cotton against her nearly-naked body. He deepens the kiss and one hand slides to the back of her head as the other falls to rest on her shoulder. She bends one knee and hooks her left leg around the back of his right thigh, and Jughead breaks the kiss.

 

“You okay?” he breathes, his eyes dark blue now as they search hers.

 

Betty nods, panting a little to catch her breath. “More than okay.” She touches his shirt and gives him a soft, questioning look; Jughead quickly peels it off, then resettles on top of her. Betty taps his bicep, and when he doesn’t immediately do anything she gives him a little smile. He smiles back snd kisses her again, then slowly, his right hand begins to move. It trails across her collarbone and downward. He cups her breast gently and rubs his thumb across her nipple. She gives a little gasp into his mouth at the sensation, and he breaks the kiss to grin at her.

 

She can’t help but giggle at the proud, cheeky look on Jughead’s face. He does it again and then winks at her, and just as she’s preparing to swat at him playfully, he dips his lips to her breasts.

 

And then she can’t think anymore.

 

He shuffles a bit lower against her, both hands coming to her breasts as he mouths across her chest, and _god,_ there is nothing pure about the impulses Betty has right now. She hears a series of needy whines that sound almost like mewls and for a moment she thinks Caramel has followed them into the room before Betty realizes that the noises are coming from _her._

 

Jughead gives one of her breasts a loving squeeze before abandoning it so that he can leverage his elbow to bring his face back to hers. “I love you so much,” he breathes into another kiss, and then he’s pressing his pelvis against hers again.

 

Betty gasps at the sensation. Her body responds automatically, bending her knees and spreading her legs to give him space to settle in between. He drops his head to her neck and groans. There’s not much space - if any - between her body and the scratching denim of his jeans, and although there is a delicious friction, Betty wants more. She reaches her hand down and grasps one of his belt loops, tugging at it.

 

“Take them off,” she breathes into his hair. “Juggie.”

 

He’s busy at her neck, laying claim with his teeth and lips, but he nods after a missed beat. Jughead rolls off of her quickly and hurriedly discards his jeans, nearly tripping over one of the legs when it gets caught on his foot. Betty giggles at him, and as he grins back at her with moderate embarrassment, she’s struck by just how good-looking he is in just his boxers, pupils blown, hair messy, and lips swollen. She decides she likes it and playfully whistles at him.

 

Jughead raises his eyebrows at her in surprise and pauses on the edge of the bed. “Are you objectifying me?!” he teases.

 

Betty giggles. “Yes.”

 

“Hmm.” He climbs back on top of her and covers both of her breasts with his hands. “I’ll allow it,” he smirks, kissing her softly. “But I’ll have you know I’m more than just a piece of meat.”

 

Betty looks at Jughead skeptically. “I don’t know about that,” she says slowly, pretending to think about it.

 

Jughead’s jaw drops briefly before a playful grin spreads across his face. He pinches her nipples gently in punishment, and Betty lets out an unexpected, high-pitched whine. He cuts it off with a kiss, and when he does it again her hips jolt in response. Jughead thrusts back, and the sudden close contact brings tears to Betty’s eyes. He breaks the kiss for air and returns to her neck, his talented mouth leaving patterns in her skin. Then one hand drops to her hip and stills on the side of her underwear, and Betty’s breath catches.

 

 _No, no, no, no, no._ She tries desperately to refocus - Jughead, his scent, his touch, his lips - but there’s something lurking. Despite the foggy pleasure swirling throughout her body, Betty’s mind suddenly snaps backward. The hungry, grabbing hands; her wrinkled dress; the hook of strong fingers over the sides of her underwear; and finally, her tears as he ignores her pleas to stop and pulls them down anyway.

 

_(Shut up, you’re gonna like this.)_

 

Betty lifts her hands from Jughead’s back and covers her face, not wanting him to see the fear in her eyes or her trembling lip. She breathes into the gauze covering her palms (one count in, three out, repeat), but it doesn’t help.

 

“Betty?” His voice is distracted the first time he says her name, but the urgency increases with each repetition. “Betty. Hey, hey. Betts, look at me.”

 

She shakes her head. If she talks, she’ll cry, and if she looks at him, she’ll cry. And Betty is so fucking done with crying about this. She wants it to be over. She wants to be _normal._

 

Jughead gently tugs her hands from her face and immediately places one of his on her cheek. She tries to look away, but his eyes are searching hers and she feels anchored. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “It’s me, it’s okay.”

 

Betty sniffs and breathes in unsteadily. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, shaking her head. “I - I don’t think I--”

 

“That’s okay,” he says automatically, rolling off of her and sitting up. “I got too carried away. I shouldn’t have pushed.” He leans over the edge of the bed and grabs his discarded t-shirt. “Here.”

 

She accepts the wrinkled cotton and holds it to her face briefly, closing her eyes. It smells like sweat and deodorant and _him,_ and she feels a little calmer. Betty sits up and slips the shirt on, covering her torso. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “You didn’t push.”

 

“What?”

 

Betty looks at him and touches his hand. His eyes hold unwarranted guilt and regret, and she needs to take it away. “I wanted you to do everything you were doing. It’s not - it isn’t you. I promise.”

 

Jughead hesitates, but nods. “Okay. I still - I’m still sorry.” He looks around apprehensively. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

She thinks about it for a second, then shakes her head. She doesn’t want to relive it again just yet. Instead, Betty asks, “Will you - can we just cuddle?”

 

“Of course.” Jughead tugs back the corner of the bedspread, offering her space on the clean sheets. Betty slips in, feeling less exposed with her bare legs under the covers, and presses herself immediately into his arms. He puts a hand into her hair and pulls out her now-loose ponytail, threading his fingers in to detangle it. “I love you, Betts,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead.

 

“I love you too.” She closes her eyes into his collarbone, her arms wrapped around his waist

 

There’s silence for a while. Betty feels her panic fall further with the caress of his fingers in her hair, and she thinks that if he keeps it up for another ten minutes she’ll probably be asleep. But eventually Caramel wanders into the room and hops onto the bed, curling in a ball on the unused pillow. She begins to purr obnoxiously loudly, and she feels him smile against her forehead.

 

“She’s got a pretty big engine for such a small cat,” Jughead observes quietly.

 

Betty gives a soft laugh. It feels good, the automatic release, and the rest of her tension melts away. “It matches her attitude,” she jokes in a near-whisper. “She takes after you.”

 

He chuckles, then his adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. “Betty?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I really am sorry. About running out, and about the fight before that. I know you just want what’s best for me, and you deserve better than how I spoke to you.”

 

Betty hugs him tighter, pressing her knee between his thighs slightly. “I was no angel either,” she says apologetically. “And I’m sorry too.” She tilts her head back so he can peck her lips softly.

 

“If I go,” Jughead hedges, _“if -_ I still want to talk to you every day.”

 

“We’ll run up an obscene long-distance bill,” Betty promises, hope building in her chest. She touches his face, tracing the freckles on his jaw.

 

He gives her an odd look. “It’s the internet age, babe. It’ll be free with wifi.”

 

“Oh.” She giggles. “Right. Fine. Lots of wifi usage.” Betty kisses the corner of his mouth. “I promise we can talk every day somehow. I don’t think I’d survive without it. And I won’t replace you if you don’t replace me.”

 

“There aren’t any girls in Paris that are quite like you,” Jughead smiles. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

 

Betty grins. “Well, there are plenty of brooding hipsters in Brooklyn that are _just_ like _you,_ so…” she trails off, her giggles turning into shrieks of laughter as he begins to tickle her in retaliation. “Okay! Okay, I give!” she gasps, falling onto her back and looking up at him. “I guess none of them are probably named Forsythe, so…”

 

He groans and rolls off of her, collapsing onto his front. “I was hoping we could live our whole lives before you found that out.”

 

Betty laughs. “It’s quite the name,” she observes.

 

“It’s worse.” Jughead sits up. “I’m Forsythe Pendleton the _third._ And my sister, Jellybean? Her real name is _Forysthia.”_

 

Betty makes a face. “That’s … dedication.”

 

“Yeah. It’s possibly the worst name in existence.”

 

Betty shrugs. “I dunno. It _is_ nerdy, but … I bet you look cute in glasses.”

 

Jughead smiles at that, then slides up behind her and wraps his arms around her. “I don't look cute - I look sexy and mysterious. Like Clark Kent.”

 

“Mm.” She settles back into him and glances down, noticing the pattern on his t-shirt that she wore. “Too bad I’m the one with the S on my chest.”

 

\--

 

 

**fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this to be shorter, but alas. If you're all still with me, thank you so much. Thanks for all the kudos and comments - anon comments are on again, so please take a second to leave some words (for me and for other writers in this tag - kudos are amazing but comments are my bread and butter!).


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronologically, this takes place after "Darlings", but you don't necessarily need to have read that first.

_“Some people aren't just people, but a place - a whole world. Sometimes you find someone you could live in for the rest of your life.”_

  * Caitlin Moran, _How To Build A Girl_



  


Betty recognizes the universal dictate that it is not polite to stare, but the universe is probably going to have to give her an exception for Jughead.

 

There are two main problems with cutting back. One is that she is hopelessly in love with him, this dark-haired and dark-spirited boy with the kind heart and sweet smile. She's had crushes before, for sure - even dated a little in undergrad (albeit very chastely) but all of those experiences pale in comparison to what she feels for him.

 

The second is that - well, if she's being blunt with herself - he's just so damn _attractive._ The more time Betty spends with Jughead, the hotter he seems to become, and the more she wants to look at him. The coming of spring has already slightly lightened his hair and darkened his skin, making the few freckles on his neck stand out more prominently. Even now, she's staring at him now as he sleeps beside her, his long eyelashes dark against the olive tone of his high cheekbones and his lips slightly parted to release a light snore. Betty is trying desperately to memorize this image so she can recall it when he’s gone. She'd take a photo if she weren't afraid that he'd wake up, and well - he'd just exerted quite a bit of energy, so he probably needs his beauty sleep.

 

A smile crosses Betty's face as she thinks about the night. About this Tuesday night in mid-April, when she'd come home from work smelling like espresso and croissants and been cranky about lack of sleep. She thinks about the mild argument they'd had over where to order takeout from - she'd really wanted pizza, but Jughead had wanted Chinese - and about how, in an effort to persuade him to her side, she'd hopped onto his lap. She thinks about her fingers unbuttoning her shirt slowly, and about his reaction.

 

Then Betty thinks about how it escalated: with his lips against her skin, her blouse on the floor, their cat curled up on his hastily abandoned beanie. She reaches a finger out and very gently traces the outline of his mouth, recalling how it felt on her breasts and her abdomen, finally stopping to suck bruises into her hipbones.

 

Betty thinks about undressing him, about tossing his boxers aside and ogling parts of Jughead she'd only previously seen briefly before panic attacks had set in. She remembers his face, caught in heat between passion and concern, and the smile that stretched across it when she'd lowered her hand to him. She can't quite recall the details of the bad joke he'd made then - something about bananas - but Betty remembers how it made her laugh, helped her push her nerves away, and focus on being her and him and and _them._

 

Heat stings behind her eyes as Betty thinks about his voice in her ear whispering stupid jokes and inappropriate versions of otherwise sweet nothings, and how wholly _himself_ he’d been had encouraged her to lift her hips up, slide her underwear off, and part her legs.

 

Betty thinks about pushing him onto his back and climbing over his hips before taking a deep breath and lowering herself slowly. She remembers the slight pain as he'd stretched into her, his loving stillness and worshipping mouth as she'd adjusted, and finally a comfortable fullness. They eventually began to move, and of the rest, Betty recalls sweet, white light; blissful, brief visions of the ceiling and the corners of his bedroom; his fingers between them and hers on his shoulders; and finally, her cry into the heavy void and his into the warm softness of her neck.

 

Betty remembers the many repetitions of _I love you,_ of _I am so proud of you_ and of _you are so incredible_ that had followed with cuddles, until now, his descent into post-orgasm unconsciousness at 9:30pm. She's still hungry, since they never did decide on food, but she also never wants to leave this moment. She knows every time isn’t going to be as smooth as this, that triggers can and will come unexpectedly - she's heard as much from girls at a support group she'd recently begun attending. She also knows that there will be some positions and acts that will be more difficult for her than others; for instance, she knows it will be a long time before she’s able to let him go down on her, no matter how glowingly Midge and Veronica talk about it. Still, Betty thinks that even if she only gets one of these moments in her life, she will die happy.

 

She had thought that she knew what to expect from the act itself. Betty will never _not_ be able to recall the rough push-pull and the grunts into her unwilling skin, nor the unexpected heat of Chuck finishing. She can lock it away and store it deep, but this will always be her burden. She’d assumed it would be slightly different if ever she was to engage in the act on a consensual basis, but Betty had been very unprepared for just how different.

 

The rudimentary mechanics may have been similar, but this time she could see his face clearly. She could see that it was Jughead who was beneath her, and she who was in control. She wanted him and welcomed him in, because this time, it was with someone she loves. This time it was with someone who is devoted to her and to whom she is devoted, someone who respects her boundaries and needs and who'd spent months earning her precious trust. This time, it brought her closer to him, underscoring and affirming her decision to be with him, leading to moments like this. In that sense, Betty knows that the two acts aren't remotely comparable.

 

Jughead stirs beside her, reaching his arm out sleepily for her. Betty slides into his chest, kisses his collarbone lightly, and closes her eyes. She doesn't believe in perfection, but he might end up changing her mind.

 

Then, five weeks later, he leaves.

 

\--

 

Betty’s fingers fly rapidly across the keyboard of her cell phone. The late afternoon sun peeks through the windows of the train car for the brief amount of time that the subway passes over the Manhattan Bridge, and Betty stops typing for a moment to look. She snaps a quick photo, recalling a moment months earlier when she and Jughead had taken this train, and attaches the photo to her email with an extra note. **_By the way, I’m passing over the East right now. It misses you too._ **

 

He's been gone for almost three weeks now, and while it’s definitely been hard, in all honesty it’s also been a lot easier than Betty expected. She's kept pretty busy with Veronica and Midge; right now, she's on her way to meet them for drinks and dinner. They keep her laughing and loving and _normal,_ and after years of judgement and prejudice from girls who thought they knew her, it was so good to have nice friends again. She’s even managed to bond a little with Archie, who is apparently also an early morning runner and gives her a few of his favourite routes from when he lived with Jughead.

 

She's been working a lot as well, in the hopes of saving up a bit for the upcoming fall semester, which promises to be just as hellaciously busy as the previous two. In his absence Betty has also managed to get ahead of schedule on her major project. After much internal debate, she's decided it will be an in-depth look at the backlog of untested rape kits in New York State, including the fight to provide additional funding for testing. Her support group has provided her a lot of good moments, but it's also exposed her to a whole other world that some survivors have to face.

 

Her case against Chuck hadn't gone her way, and generally Betty considers the judicial process following her assault to have been just another violation, given the way she’d been treated and the way it had turned out. She used to wish she'd never bothered to report him; most of the time, she still wishes that. But after hearing the stories from some of the girls in her group - knowing that the evidence in their own cases is sitting on a shelf, deteriorating, with little hope of being tested anytime soon - Betty can't imagine it. At least she'd had the opportunity to be heartbroken.

 

She'd been mulling over the topic for a while, but officially made a decision about a week into Jughead being gone. Betty emailed him and as always, he was totally supportive. His response was laced with unspoken concern about the effect dealing with the subject matter regularly would have on her, but Betty has never been the kind of girl to let something stop her from achieving a goal and _this_ is not going to be the thing that does it. So she’d made the official submission to her grad chair, and that was that. It had given her something new to throw herself into, something further to distract herself with.

 

When she's busy, she can't miss him.

 

But she does, anyway. Especially in the apartment, and especially at night. It's weird to be there without him. Cooking for one is strange now. Caramel has started to sleep on his pillow. The bed is empty. She likes to sleep alone sometimes, but this is involuntary and cold. She’s two lonely nights away from sleeping in his bed, having already resorted to sleeping in one of his t-shirts. It helps, but it’s nowhere near the same, even with the image of his blissed-out, sleeping face in her mind.

 

Jughead had gotten an international data and text plan for the six weeks he’s there, so they text and Skype at least once a day. The time difference isn’t huge - six hours - but his free hours don’t always line up with hers, especially since she’s been trying to keep so busy, so email has also been a key feature of the last few weeks. Hers are filled with updates on her day, details about school and work and friends, and his chronicle his adventures in the City of Lights. Mostly, he likes the fellowship and seems to get lost on the streets a lot. He isn’t picking up the language much, although the last email she’d received had included a couple of French phrases that he’d recently learned. (Both centered around food, but Betty supposes she can’t be that surprised.)

 

She also gets lots of photos: images of his teeny-tiny apartment, the city, the sights, and the Seine. Sometimes Jughead is in them, smiling or making silly faces to offset his obvious discomfort about taking a selfie. Betty likes these ones the best, although she saves them all.

 

The train rolls back underground, and Betty continues typing. **_Caramel meowed at your running shoes today. I can’t tell if it’s a commentary on how new and unused they are or if she misses you. Maybe both._ ** She pauses, biting her lip, and adds, **_I miss you, but you knew that. I hope. If you didn’t then you’re probably missing the entire point of these rambling emails._ ** Betty attaches a photo of Caramel for his benefit, and when she gets cell reception at the next station she sends the email with a final **_love you! Betty._ **

 

Twenty minutes later, Betty reaches the restaurant where she’s meeting Midge and Veronica. The benefit of early June is that the weather in New York is gorgeous, so they get seated on an outdoor patio. Midge and Veronica are already there, since both live closer to the area, and when she sees them Betty feels a little plain. Veronica as always is dressed to the nines in a magenta dress with nude heels, and even Midge, who is usually more casual, is wearing a floral skirt and blue top. Betty smiles awkwardly as she approaches.

 

“Betty!” Veronica chirps happily, standing up to give her a hug.

 

Midge follows in turn, and when Betty pulls back from her she smiles and says, “You guys look amazing. I feel a little underdressed.”

 

“Please,” Midge dismisses. “I just came from an afternoon lunch-and-walk thing with Moose’s mom, otherwise I’d be in my usual.” She waves her hand at Betty’s white shorts and purple t-shirt. “Besides I think the white is actually kind of dressy. Especially with those legs of yours. Seriously Betty, what is your secret?”

 

Veronica takes a long sip of her drink, which Betty is pretty sure is champagne. “She wakes up at like four every single day to run for six hours before work.”

 

Betty laughs and rolls her eyes. “I wake up around six and I only run for an hour or so. But thank you,” she says to Midge. “I do a little barre, and when we have time Jug and I like to go to the climbing gym in Williamsburg, but that’s not regular.”

 

“I’m still in awe that you got him to go to that with you,” Veronica comments, signalling to the waitress. Betty shrugs at Veronica and orders sangria.

 

“Men will do anything for a little nookie,” Midge jokes. “Hey, how _is_ the bachelorette life treating you?”

 

Betty hesitates, not wanting to sound pathetic or needy, and finally just shrugs. “I’m being pretty productive. But I miss him. And he makes Paris sound so amazing.”

 

“I love Paris,” Veronica says dreamily. “I’m so jealous.”

 

“You could go to Paris at the drop of a hat if you wanted,” Midge reminds her, then looks down at the menu. “What are you guys getting?”

 

They eat and laugh and talk for a couple of hours. Midge talks about dealing with Moose’s mother, who is allegedly a little overprotective of her baby boy, and Veronica contrasts that with stories about the polar opposite - Fred Andrews, joking that he prefers her and Betty to the boys. Betty laughs along with them, and by the time she’s on the subway home, her loneliness has subsided a little.

 

She’s almost all the way home when she gets a text from Jughead. Betty is a little surprised; after all, it’s nearly three in the morning in Paris. She opens it and smiles immediately.

 

**_J’aime ton cul. That means I like your butt._ **

 

Betty quickly responds. **_I’m glad you’re picking up the important things,_ ** she types, then adds, **_Why are you awake?_ **

 

Jughead’s reply is swift and pointed. **_Because I’m thinking about your ass?_ **

 

She draws her lower lip between her teeth. The train is pretty abandoned, and she’s almost home anyway. Betty pulls up a photo she’d taken earlier that morning for the express purpose of a conversation like this. It’s not that risque - she’s heard too many horror stories for that, even with a temporary long-distance relationship - but she looks kind of hot in it, she thinks. Her hair is messy and she’s wearing a thin-strapped top that shows quite a bit of cleavage, propped up on his bed by her elbow.

 

 **_I’m thinking about you too,_ ** she texts, and attaches the photo. Betty summons all the confidence she can and clicks send just as the train pulls into her station. She shoves her phone in her purse and doesn’t look at it again until she gets down the street and into the apartment.

 

Caramel curls around her ankles once the door is closed. Betty leans down to pet her, then checks her phone for his reply. **_Christ, Betty, are you trying to kill me?_ **

 

She giggles. **_Maybe. Does that give you something to dream about?_ **

 

He responds with an eggplant emoji, then adds, **_am I hip enough to use that?_ **

 

 **_No,_ ** she replies, biting her lip. Betty scoops Caramel up and walks to the bedroom. **_But maybe when you get home you can show me the real thing._ **

 

\--

 

The following morning, Betty settles down at her laptop with a post-run smoothie. She’s an hour deep into sketches and plans for her documentary when the buzzer for her apartment sounds. Confused, Betty rises and walks over to the intercom.

 

“Who is it?” she asks.

 

“Veronica!” a familiar voice chirps. “Let me up, B!”

 

“Oh!” Betty presses the door button, pleasantly surprised. She had not expected Veronica, but she’s feeling exceptionally lonely after her evening conversation with Jughead the night prior and is definitely up for company.

 

Veronica bursts through the apartment door three minutes later, a vision in dressy black shorts and a sleeveless white blouse. “Good morning sunshine!” she greets in a sing-song voice. “It is I, Veronica Lodge, to the rescue.” She pulls an envelope out of her purse and hands it to Betty. _“Pour vous, mademoiselle.”_

 

“What is this?” Betty asks with a curious smile, taking the envelope. It’s unsealed, so she lifts the top and slides out-- “Oh my _god,_ this better not be what I think it is.”

 

“It is!” Veronica smiles, sitting down at the small table. “A ticket to see your loverboy. You leave on Thursday, should be back Wednesday noon-ish.”

 

Betty’s jaw drops and her fingers tremble on the paper. “V, I can’t - you know I can’t accept this.”

 

“I thought you’d say that.” Veronica pulls a nail file out of her bag and begins to pick at a jagged edge on her left thumbnail. “That’s why I have a bargain for you. You know how I started working for Andrea, my mother’s friend?”

 

Betty nods. She’s heard a lot about Andrea, the owner of an event planning firm based in Chelsea. Veronica has just started as a junior associate, which Betty thinks is a great idea. Veronica knows more about events in New York than any website she’s ever come across, and having been raised in fairly high social circles, she’s also attended every kind possible.

 

“Well, in August my mother is hosting a fundraiser for the American Society for Deaf Children, through Andrea’s firm. Andrea thinks that since it’s for family, it’d be a good choice for my first event. I have the venue booked, but I need _so_ much help.” Veronica sighs. “I am amazing at ideas and details, but logistics - not so much my thing. I was hoping that you’d be able to help. In exchange - Paris with your boyfriend?”

 

Betty draws her lip between her teeth. “Veronica, I don’t know, this is still so much money.”

 

“It really wasn’t; I got a good deal. Plus, it’s direct. This is one of the advantages of living in a major city, B.” Veronica smiles hopefully at her. “Come on, please? It’ll be so fun planning this together.”

 

It would be, although - Betty has some experience planning things like this, and it _is_ a lot of work. She doesn’t want to take advantage of Veronica’s generosity, and after the Bahamas trip she’s a little nervous that she’s _that_ mooching friend, but the workload for this event might just be enough of an offset to assuage her guilt. “Are you sure?”

 

“It’s already paid for,” Veronica confirms. “I’m sure. Does that mean you’re in?”

 

Betty feels a smile creep onto her face. “If you’re sure, then yes, V. This is _incredible._ You - I do not deserve a friend like you.” She pulls her into a hug, squeezing tightly. “Does Jughead know?”

 

Veronica shakes her head. “Nope. And June in Paris means you need cute new dresses, obviously. So go get dressed, we have a lot of shopping to do.”

 

\--

 

The hallway of his apartment building is _tiny._

 

The building itself, situated in the Latin Quarter, is narrow and tall with living space only facing east, so the doors to the units are all along one side. The other wall is plain white with slightly peeling paint, the doors a dark red colour. It's here on the old hardwood floor, facing Unit 55, that Betty sits.

 

Technically, she's sitting on her suitcase, because the floor is kind of dusty and her eyelet dress is new. It's a pretty peach colour, lightweight with thin straps. It cinches at the waist, flows to mid-thigh, and shows just enough skin to make it a perfect dress for Betty to see her boyfriend in for the first time in nearly a month. She'd packed it in her carry-on specifically so she could change into it at the airport once she landed. Betty had also brushed her teeth and given herself what Veronica had so lovingly referred to as “a whore’s bath” - essentially, a sponge bath out of a sink - before grabbing a cab to his apartment.

 

Unfortunately, he's not home. Betty had talked her way into the actual building, but is left waiting here in this hallway until he arrives. She listens to music on her slowly dying phone, not having reception or WiFi to waste time on the internet like she usually would. When her battery is finally spent, she pulls a book out of her bag and thumbs through it.

 

Betty rests her head against the wall and closes her eyes. The red-eye flight had been long, and although she'd slept through most it, it hadn't been a particularly good sleep. She'd left around eleven at night on Thursday and arrived close to noon Paris time; by the time she'd gotten her bags, changed, and made her way down to Jughead's apartment, it was around two in the afternoon. Betty's phone is dead now, but she's been waiting at least an hour, so she figures it's probably sometime between three and four. And she could use a nap. This was hardly the place, but if her eyelids grow heavy enough, they can block just enough light…

 

As is typical, she can hear Jughead before she can see him. The sound of loud boots on old stairs wakes Betty up, and she scrambles to her feet just as he appears around the corner at the end of the hallway. He stands there dumbfounded for a moment, which allows Betty time to take him in: he's tanned, even moreso than before, wearing one of his old t-shirts, black jeans, and his beanie. He has a messenger bag slung over one arm, which is sliding slowly toward his shoulder.

 

“Betty?” he asks weakly.

 

She smiles, feeling oddly shy, and lifts her hands up in an exaggerated shrug. “Surprise!”

 

Jughead is at her side in seconds. His arms slide around her waist and hers around his shoulders; he hoists her to her toes, and instinctively Betty gives a little jump and wraps her legs around his hips. He immediately moves his hands to support the backs of her upper thighs, but in this moment Betty wouldn't have even cared if he’d dropped her. He's _here,_ in her arms, and for all that she thought she'd missed him before - God, she obviously had had no idea. If this is what having him with her is like, Betty doesn't understand how she dealt with a month of his absence, or how she's supposed to deal with the other half that's still to come.

 

She pulls back slightly from the hug just enough to kiss Jughead. He returns it immediately, but is smiling too widely to deepen it. Betty giggles against his lips and sets her feet back down on the ground, though his hands are notably slow to move from her ass.

 

“Betts, what the _hell_ are you doing here?!” Jughead asks, still clearly shocked. “How long - how - when did you - okay. Hang on.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys, quickly opening the door to his apartment. Jughead moves to grab her bags, so Betty walks in curiously with only her purse.

 

She's seen it all in photos, but it had been so abstract then. Seeing it for real is sort of strange. It's very small, a studio with a tiny bathroom off to the side, a kitchenette in one corner, a bed in the other, a small desk against another wall and a large window with a view of the square below. Betty had thought their New York place was small - she has no idea how people live in spaces this compressed for anything longer than a few months.

 

“Great view,” Betty remarks, standing at the window.

 

Jughead lugs her bags in and closes the door. “Yeah, it almost makes up for the shoebox quality of the rest,” he jokes, walking up behind her and slipping his arms around her waist. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Betts. You have no idea how good it is to see you. How did you get here?”

 

“Veronica. Long story.” Betty leans back into his chest. “I missed you so - oh!” She gasps, her words trailing off as his lips find the side of her neck. “So much,” she breathes, tingles rising through her body.

 

Jughead's arms are wrapped around her, trapping her against him. “Remind me to thank Veronica, then,” he comments as one of his hands slides up and over a breast, fondling her gently through her dress. Betty whines quietly, biting her lip, and presses her ass into his groin. “God, Betty,” he groans, the other hand falling to grip her hip. He presses back, both still facing the window, and tugs the top of the right side of her dress down. She's not wearing a bra because of the intricate straps at the back of the dress, and the action exposes part of her chest.

 

Jughead grabs her breast, but he's clearly excited and the action is a little rough. Betty gasps with pleasure, but an uncertain twinge in her chest interrupts the other sensations lower in her stomach. She swallows, focusing on his scent and his warmth behind her, but it's not quite enough. _It_ had happened from behind, in the back of Chuck’s car; and while Betty slept with Jughead a few times after the first, they haven't tried this position yet. She knows they'd need to approach with caution. So now, when the hand on her hip sneaks eagerly under the skirt of her dress, Betty’s breath catches in her throat. She tries to ask him to slow down, to say that she just needs a minute, but the only thing that comes out is a somewhat strangled cry.

 

His hands drop anyway, regardless of her unintelligent yelp, and he turns her around to face him. “Betty? Betty, hey.” Jughead's voice is gentle and encouraging, but when she opens her eyes he must see her panic, because his skin pales and his face falls with realization. _“Fuck._ Shit. I'm so sorry. I didn't even think. I'm a fucking asshole.”

 

Betty shakes her head but can't speak yet. She buries her face in his shirt and breathes him in calmly, his hands rubbing her back in circles. Betty is working hard on not being embarrassed, because she knows this isn't her fault, but she can't help feeling a little stupid anyway. They've been apart a month. She's missed him terribly. She _wants_ to make love. She _wants_ him to want her that badly. But she can't control everything, and that's part of her process too.

 

“Sorry,” Betty says after a while, lifting her eyes to Jughead's. His are suspiciously watery as he gazes back. “It's not you, I promise. I just - I have to see your face.”

 

He nods, blinking quickly. “Betty, _I'm_ the one who's sorry. I'm a selfish asshole. I've been dreaming about you every night since I got here, and then you're _here_ for real looking at me, looking so beautiful and … I got carried away. And I didn't think about what you needed.”

 

“It's okay,” she says softly, reaching up to take his hat off. Betty slips her fingers into his hair and scratches his scalp. “It really is. I'm okay. _Believe_ me, I want you too. It's been a long month.” Betty bites her lip. “This dress - I mean, I didn't exactly travel in it. I put it on to see you again. I wanted that reaction. My brain just didn't catch up in time.”

 

Jughead nods. “Well let's just - c’mere, come sit on the bed and we can just talk for a bit. I don't really have a couch,” he says apologetically, leading her over.

 

She does, propping herself up against the wall and crossing her ankles. Betty recounts the story of Veronica coming over and the gift of the plane ticket in exchange for her working on this event with her. “Then I managed to wrangle the time off from work, caught a plane, and I'm here.”

 

“I still can't believe it,” Jughead marvels, shaking his head. “Literally this morning on the way to the seminar I was thinking about how much you’d love Paris and how badly I wish you were here with me.”

 

Betty smiles and puts her feet on his lap. “I can’t wait to see some of the city. I go home Wednesday, but that gives me a few days. When do you have class?”

 

Jughead grabs her feet and starts to rub them. Betty lets out a little moan; the pressurized airplane seems to have wreaked havoc on her calves, and this feels amazing. “I’m done for today, and no class on weekends. I do have a non-negotiable seminar Monday, but I’m not presenting on Tuesday so I don’t have to attend that day, technically. I have been going to those anyway, but I’ll skip it for you.”

 

“For little ol’ me?” Betty says, placing a hand on her chest and feigning surprise.

 

He smiles. “You traveled across an ocean to see me. The least I can do is actually be around for it.” He grimaces apologetically. “I’m sorry about Monday, but I’m presenting so I can’t really miss it. I should be done by around three, though.”

 

“Don’t worry!” Betty chirps. She pulls her feet out of his grasp and comes to her knees, shifting over to him and sitting in his lap. “I think I can entertain myself in Paris for a few hours. I'll find things to do.”

 

“Yeah?” Jughead smirks, his hands coming to rest on her thighs. “Like what?”

 

She bites her lip against a smile and slips her hands up his chest. “Museums. I know you've done most of the major ones. Maybe run by the Seine.”

 

“Always running.” He squeezes her thigh. “You ever give these legs a break?”

 

Betty smiles slyly and reaches up to push the straps of her dress off her shoulders. “I like running,” she replies, taking note of how closely he's watching the now-precarious top of her dress. “I've never exactly heard you complain about what it does for my legs.”

 

“And I never will,” Jughead vows, leaning in to kiss her softly. “I just want to make sure you're taking care of yourself. You look like you've lost a little weight.”

 

Betty holds his face with one hand, the other on the side of his neck. “I love you for worrying,” she says, smiling reassuringly. “I'm okay. I guess missing you just killed my appetite.”

 

“Mm. The Parisian carbs will bring it back.” Jughead closes his eyes briefly, then tiptoes his fingers up her sides, pausing just beneath her chest. Betty arches into him as permission, and he tugs the top of her dress all the way down. His mouth closes in on her, tongue darting out to taste her. Betty gasps and pulls at his shirt; he breaks from her for a moment to tug it off, and she takes the opportunity to shimmy completely out of her dress.

 

His arms come around her moments later, his lips return to hers, and together they fall back on the mattress.

 

\--

 

Betty is surprised the next day when she wakes up at her normal six am. It's the equivalent of her sleeping until noon New York time, which she doesn't think she's ever done in her life. The previous day had been quite eventful, including a not-very-restful redeye flight and an evening with her boyfriend. They'd made love, followed by Betty grabbing a quick shower before Jughead took her out for an early dinner. It was just at a local place across the square, but it was still _Paris;_ to Betty, the little cafe may as well have been world-famous.

 

Afterward, they'd walked a little around the neighbourhood, but Betty had been exhausted so they'd retired to his apartment fairly early. She used his WiFi to email Veronica briefly, then promptly passed out in his bed, mumbling apologies. Jughead had mentioned that he'd stay up and get some work done to free up even more time for her during the day, so it wasn't like she was leaving him with nothing to do - but still, the uber-polite part of Betty feels slightly bad that she'd basically gone straight to sleep at essentially eight PM.

 

He's passed out next to her, snoring lightly. Betty presses a feather light kiss to his lips, then slips out of bed, puts on her running gear, and takes the keys from the pocket of his discarded jeans. She hurries down the few curvy flights of stairs, then sets out on the street.

 

There are a few people out, plus city workers who are spraying the sidewalks down with water. Betty loves an early morning run, especially in a new place; she swears by the adage that it's the best way to learn a new city. She sticks to a fairly obvious wide rectangle and does it a couple of times to avoid getting too lost on the very _not_ intuitive streets.

 

She waves at a couple others from her early morning tribe and smells something truly delicious coming from a bakery two blocks away from Jughead's apartment. Betty’s stomach grumbles; even if her sleep schedule acclimated right away, her stomach sure didn't. She decides half an hour is a decent enough run time for the day after a transatlantic flight and goes back to Jughead's apartment.

 

He's still asleep, so before she gets dressed, Betty checks her email. Veronica has responded, and since she's the entire reason Betty is even here, she feels like she owes her a speedy reply. **_You'd better post some good photos of you two, I can't wait to see. But I am so glad he was surprised. Hopefully the reunion was nice ;) ;) xoxo, V_ **.

 

Betty grins and replies quickly. **_It was very nice indeed. :) I just got back from my run. I passed by a bakery and could smell the baguettes and croissants… so about to wake up Jug for breakfast. I'll try and email later! -B._ ** She also emails her mother, who had been quite taken aback when she'd found out about Betty's last minute Parisian trip. Alice liked Jughead, which surprised Betty - at the least, Betty could tell that she respected him - but the news of the whirlwind visit had seemed to come as a bit of a shock. Betty figures a detailed accounting of the trip - G rated, anyway - should help assuage her mother’s anxiety.

 

When she's done, Betty pulls on another of her new dresses, this one white cotton with blue embroidery, then crawls on top of Jughead and begins to poke his face. His nose wrinkles a few times before he actually wakes up - which is probably the cutest thing ever, in Betty's opinion - and when his eyes open he immediately smiles sleepily.

 

“Thought I dreamed you,” he mumbles, reaching for her clumsily. “What time is it?”

 

“It's about eight,” Betty admits. “Sorry. I know I should let you sleep. But I am starving, and I ran by a bakery earlier and I really want breakfast.”

 

Jughead props himself up on his elbows, eyes running over her. “New dress?”

 

Betty touches the hem. “Veronica thought I needed new ones for Paris.”

 

“Looks amazing on you.” Jughead smiles. “Okay. I'm awake. Let me get dressed and brush my teeth and we can go. You know what you want to do today?”

 

Betty smiles somewhat shyly. “Uhh. Yeah, I was thinking since it's so nice we could go to Montmartre.” She'd done a little research on sights to see, in case she needed to entertain herself while he was at class; the artsy neighbourhood was high on her list.

 

“Sounds good to me.” Jughead swings his legs out of bed and stretches, then meanders slowly into the bathroom.

 

Once he's dressed, they grab americanos and croissants at a café nearby. Betty takes a few photos for Veronica, and they get one of the staff to take a photo of them together before heading off to the metro.

 

He’s gotten pretty good at navigating through the city by now, so Betty lets Jughead take the lead. The Parisian metro is quite similar to the New York subway, only cheaper and with a high frequency of stops. The crowds are the same, the uneasiness is the same, and luckily for her, Jughead is also the same.

 

He grabs her hand once they arrive and doesn't let go for a long time. They climb the stairs to the Sacre Coeur and take photos, then wander slowly through the old streets. It's so incredibly beautiful, the view and the buildings and the charm - like something out of a movie, she thinks, only she's in the actual place. A year ago, she wouldn't have even dreamed of Paris. Of course, a year ago there were a lot of things that she could have never anticipated - chief among them, him.

 

Betty leans into Jughead's side when they reach the square. He slips his arm around her waist and leads her slowly down the rows of artists painting. Betty ends up purchasing a piece, a medium-sized cityscape that she'll get framed in New York. It's rolled for her into a hard sided tube, which only just sticks out of her purse.

 

“Where to after this, Betts?” Jughead asks, his eyes wandering toward a crepe stand down one of the side streets.

 

She shrugs, smiling up at him, and slides her arms around his waist. “Anywhere.”

 

\--

 

**fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a broken record at this point, but thank you guys all so much for the love you've shown me. This ends the planned codas I had, so any one shots in this universe or otherwise will be slow from this point on, but hopefully you guys don't forget about me.


End file.
